The Cruelest Month
by Kuriyami
Summary: PreRENT oneshot, April's suicide. Yeah, I know, there's a lot of them out there, but I felt like writing my own verison. Read, reviews and all that jazz equeals amore.


Mostly, I was getting tired of all these April fanfics where shecommits suicide and likes the pain.It always bothered me for some reason, and this came out. It's not my best, but I'd like to have it in here all the same.

Note: I'm aware that my RENT fanfictions seem to be coming out all depressing, and I'm sure that one of these days, I'll write one that isn't. But until that day comes, here they are. Sorry 'bout that.

**Disclaimer**: Man, it would be nice to own those wonderful RENT characters.

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April started at herself in the mirror. _Junkie_, her reflection cried out, _crazy junkie, stupid girl, psycho addict._

Mark had finally gotten Roger out of the house for once; he hadn't gotten any drugs for a couple days, and was on a major low. Mark—bless him and his good intentioned soul—had suggested that they go shop for groceries, since they happened to have some money at this point in time. April smiled wistfully. Mark probably didn't want it to be spent on drugs, that's why. Sweet, sweet Mark. He took care of them when they were on withdrawal. Poor boy, hardly knew what to do, what to say. April loved Mark, loved him for his simple kindness, his forgiving smiles.

She wiped away the mascara on her face. She had been crying a little, and it had run, as usual. April pulled down her right eyelid, and stuck her tongue out to the mirror. She looked like she had just come from hell and back. She giggled absentmindedly. If she looked like hell, god knows what Roger looked like.

She loved Roger. Honestly, she did. She loved him with all her heart. He was the first guy she actually felt comfortable with. No hiding behind false laughter and smiles, no acting like someone else she wasn't. Roger loved her for who she was. Like, really loved her. Sometimes, it would make April cry a little when she thought about it. Roger was sweet, too. Her Roger.

They had met accidentally. One of Roger's band mates, the drummer, was hooking up with her friend. She sat at the bar, watching them grind on the dance floor. April was glad her friend was having a good time, but god, she wanted to have some fun too! Or at least strike up an interesting conversation. She took a sip of her drink when a blond-haired boy sat next to her. He looked at her. "Interesting night, huh?" His tone was conversational with a hint of sarcasm. April made a half-smile.

"Interesting for my friend, not me." She pointed to her friend and the drummer on the dance floor. "I'm a third wheel, I suppose." The guy chuckled, grasping his drink and turning around in the stool, taking a tiny sip.

"We're all third wheels some of the time," he commented. April nodded.

"But it's strange, considering no one likes to be a third wheel at all." He laughed. That voice was sexy, April noticed. A little rough, but kind at the same time. Musical almost. "And why are you here?" she asked, wanting the conversation to delve a little deeper than third wheels.

"My band performed, and one of my guys wanted to hang out with this chick," he said, taking another drink. "And I had nothing better to do, so I decided to stay and hang out." April smiled.

"Sounds like you and I are here for similar reasons. We're kindred spirits, you and I." It was then that he turned his full gaze at her, and April found herself blushing at the intensity of his stare. The comment seemed to have taken him off guard, but then he smiled, and laughed.

"I'm Roger." And they had hit it off from there.

April smiled into the mirror. Kindred spirits. She always liked how that phrase just seemed to flow right off the tongue, a nice little thing. And she was right. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle; here's a bit of sky, and next to it, another piece of sky, look how they fit together so perfectly. She had fun with Roger. He could joke around with her, and then also hug her close and whisper in her ear, and she'd melt in his arms. It wasn't long before she moved into the lot, into his room with him. Mark seemed to be okay with it, and he seemed to like her. It was nice, those first few months.

Before the drugs.

April regretted the first moment she ever introduced Roger to drugs. Sure, she had a little ecstacy here, and little angel dust here, and don't forget the cocaine while you're at it. She didn't mind doing to herself; the drugs were a release. But then Roger caught her doing it in the bathroom one night. She was snorting the cocaine when Roger walked in. He looked at her strangely. "April, what are you doing?"

"Um, n-n-nothing," she stuttered, wiping the remains of the white powder away, but he quickly reached down and grabbed her hand.

"April, what is this? What are you doing?" His tone wasn't angry, but there was a bit of it in his voice. Some of it made her feel a little guilty. And when April felt guilty, she got defensive. She snatched her hand back.

"Jesus, Roger, mind your own fucking business! I'm just doing something to make me feel good." Roger's own anger flared up.

"April, calm down! I only wanted to know what you were doing, and you bite my damn head off!"

"I was just doing a little cocaine, Roger, alright?" She blurted this out, the high finally raising her above sanity to a different plane of living. "It helps me through the day."

"Cocaine? God, April. Why do you take that?" She smiled. A little voice in the back of her head told her it wasn't a good idea, but things just kept slipping out of April's mouth.

"Wanna try a little?" At first, he was surprised. She could see it in his face. And then, the wheels in his head started turning. He looked at April, searching her face. He was so uncertain, but since it was out there, on the table, April decided to help him along. If he could only feel this way—if they could feel this way together. April felt so good right now, so wonderfully high, and she wanted to share it with him. Isn't that what people do when they love each other? Share their happiness? And April's happiness was in the form of an expensive but magical white power. She finally coaxed him into trying a little, that it wouldn't hurt, that a little would never hurt anyone, and that everyone did it, and it made you feel good. "Roger, it feels so nice," she remembered saying. "I want you to feel this way. Please, just once, only once, and then if you don't like it you never have to do it again."

It happened more than once. They would get high in bathrooms, in the clubs, even on the kitchen table of the loft, making sure to wipe the counter clean just in case. And, god, the times they had. It was wonderful. She loved him, and he loved her, and for months they spent their time together in a drug-induced high, full of passion and affection.

They finally got to heroin, to shots, and Mark caught them at that. You can hide syringes and the marks on your arm for so long. He got really mad, more mad than April had ever seen him. But it wasn't until both of them, sitting next to Mark's closed door, agreed that soon they were going to get help, they swore, they would get help soon, just please, please come out of your room, Mark, we miss you so much. And he did come out, his eyes red from crying, and April held him close while Roger promised that he was going to get help, they both were.

Not before they got AIDS.

April figured it was one of the needles. It had to have been. Roger was too deeply in love with her to go have a casual fuck here and there. And April wasn't screwing anyone else, so it had to have been the needles. Roger didn't know. Not yet. April just got the results this afternoon.

She wiped away her red lipstick, washed her face. So clean, like when you wake up in the morning. She touched the mirror, her reflection. How was she going to tell him? How was your trip to the store, and by the way, we have AIDS? Oh god, what about herself? She was already weak as it was. True, they were just HIV positive. But that was a death sentence all the same.

She started to cry. Sobbing, really. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed to the empty bathroom, sinking to the floor. "I'm so sorry, Roger. I love you. I'll always love you. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. It was all my fault. My fault you started drugs, my fault you got AIDS." She looked up to the ceiling. "God forgive me." She looked helplessly around the bathroom. They would get back soon, she'd have to tell Roger soon, oh sweet Jesus, what will she do?

She looked to her purse, got out her lipstick. Bright red, always smudged on Roger's face, on his lips and cheeks. April started to write on the mirror. After she was done, she took out a little scrap of paper and a pen. She wrote something down, folded it, and then set it in the cabinet. Tucked there, safe, almost hidden but not quite. She wanted to leave something before she left, something they wouldn't see until later.

April hated messes. She was obsessive-compulsive about that. Roger would make fun of her, cleaning up all the empty beer bottles when the rest of them were practically passed out. "O-C girl," he'd taunt, "come over here, I want to see the shade of lipstick you're wearing."

"I always wear the same shade of lipstick, Roger," she'd say, slurring the words. He'd hiccup slightly, and that sly grin would form on his face.

"Are you sure? I swear that's not the same colour you usually wear." She'd laugh as the beer bottles would tinkle, hitting each other as they'd hit the trash can, and April would walk over, swaying, and she'd show him, no, Roger, it's the same colour as always.

The razor blade slid down her wrist, and it hurt like the devil. April always thought she'd welcome the pain at a moment like this, but it hurt so much, all the way down to her bones and her heart. She would read about things like this, how the suicides would always say the pain was nice, the pain was sweet, but it wasn't nice, it wasn't sweet. It stung, deep. It almost made her shiver, call out, scream for help, please god, help me, I don't want to do this, oh jesus, help me, i don't want to kill myself

The blood sprang up, gushed out. April wasn't ready to die, but, hell, she was dying, decaying even, as the thought raced through her mind. And now, with so much crimson coming from her, why not finish the job? The other wrist, the cut went deeper, so much more sloppy than the previous one. The pain still hurt, still made her gasp for breath, but it was almost over. Now she'd just have to wait, and everything would go that lovely shade of black, dark as a raven's wing, dark as the night sky, dark as Roger's leather jacket he wore on those cold winter nights. She dropped the razor on the floor of the bathroom, getting dizzy. She smiled, and looked at the ceiling, her head resting beside the faucet. They wouldn't have to clean up much mess, she thought happily, only the bathtub. And then she thought of Roger. And the first time he looked at her, with those eyes.

"Roger," she whispered. His eyes were what drew April in most of all. They were an enchanting green, dark and jaded. But they could light up when he was happy, so bright they'd fill April's heart with happiness. Oh, those eyes of emerald. Your sweet eyes, Roger. Your sweet green eyes. I want to see them one more time. One last time. Don't let them get to you, baby. Be tough. I know you can be. My lovely Roger with the jaded emerald eyes.

I love you.

April didn't hear Roger frantically banging on the door, please, April, please, open up this fucking door, please. She didn't see him as he came in, the blood soaking her clothing, looking like she could have been asleep, minus the huge, purple gashes on her arms. She didn't see him as he slid to the floor, hear him sobbing her name, his head in his arms.

"We have AIDS," it said on the mirror in her bright red lipstick, that signature lipstick she'd always wear. That's all it said.

Later, when Roger was in rehab, Mark opened the medicine cabinet, and found a folded slip of paper tucked behind two random medications that hadn't been touched in months. He opened it up, and read it. Afterwards, after he'd shed his tears, Mark slipped it into Roger's nightstand drawer, deep in there, so he'd find it one day. One day.

_I'm so sorry, Roger. They say April is the cruelest month._

_love_

-fin.

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Hope you enjoyed it. If you liked it, reviews are always loved. soon to be x-posted to rentfic. So if you see this again, that's why. 


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